


The Tenant Over the Bookshop

by Treesap



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Writing, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22273798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treesap/pseuds/Treesap
Summary: “Help Wanted: Creaky Bend Bookshop seeks specialist for curation and clerk duties. Fair wages and living quarters provided. Apply today!” The ad’s wording lacked some of the more usual “Death eaters need not apply” fare, so he had moderate hopes for this opportunity. That is, he did until he lifted his gaze to the help desk. Hermione Granger stood behind it, adorned with a forest green vest and a gleaming, gold nametag.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 24
Kudos: 169





	1. Warm, elusive fires

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends. I don't have a beta, so I expect that I'll be making polishes to this, but I'm tired of writing fic and then not publishing it ever because it's not good enough so here. Sorry that it has problems! 
> 
> I wanted to write something cozy, and I plan for it to be a three to four part series once finished. :) 
> 
> Also: obviously JKR owns the rights to these characters.

Draco Malfoy slipped into the bookstore with his head down and his long coat covered in rain. He kept it wrapped tightly around his thin frame, ignoring the coat rack. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a vacant armchair beside it pulled at him. He knew that if he tossed his coat over the rack, put his feet up for a minute, the warmth would seep into his bones and chase out the November chill. But, he wasn’t here for comfort. He was here for an escape.

At the manor, yet another envelop bearing the Greengrass crest had arrived. He didn’t plan on being there when his father opened it and discovered what he’d done. In fact, Draco didn’t plan on being in that house ever again. He swallowed, and the motion stuck in his throat. He had a handful of galleons on him, but with his bank vault still under his father’s control, he was unlikely to get more. He lifted his copy of The Prophet, once more focusing on the underlined ad.

“Help Wanted: Creaky Bend Bookshop seeks specialist for curator and clerk duties. Fair wages and living quarters provided. Apply today!” The ad’s wording lacked some of the more usual “Death eaters need not apply” fare, so he had moderate hopes for this opportunity. That is, he did until he lifted his gaze to the help desk. Hermione Granger stood behind it, adorned with a forest green vest and a gleaming, gold nametag.

The witch’s hands played over a thin board that clicked and clacked along with her movement. A glowing, enchanted box squatted to before her face, and a thick reference book was spread open across the desk. She hadn’t noticed him yet. He could still slip out. Try someplace else. Her head shifted, and he caught a glimpse of ink smudged on her face. Typical.

He looked back down at the paper. This was the only job in Diagon Alley that came with housing, and the only one that worked with books. He squared his shoulders and approached the desk.

“Malfoy.” Hermione’s voice was flat, and she didn’t look up or stop her clacking. Draco’s stomach lurched. She must’ve noticed him come in.

“I need to speak with the owner,” Draco kept his voice low and soft. Hermione’s clacking didn’t cease.

“Why.”

She wasn’t making this easy for him.

Draco dropped into a whisper, “I’m here about the ad in The Prophet.” Hermione’s clacking slowed and her brows creased.

“The job ad?” she asked, her voice a bit too loud.

Draco ducked his head and replied. “Yes.”

Hermione’s hands dropped, and she turned to look at him, her eyes narrow. “You don’t want to work here. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Draco barked out a laugh. “Nothing does, anymore.” Granger’s calculating gaze seemed to pierce through his coat and right into his chest.

The witch waited for two long moments. Finally, she reached under the desk and brought out a parchment, slapping it onto the table. “Fill this out, go home, and if we want to interview you, you’ll receive an owl.” Her tone was clipped.

“I can’t go home, Granger. If I could, we both know I wouldn’t be here.” Draco had never had to beg for a job before. It felt horrible and degrading. He supposed he deserved it.

Granger’s chin tilted. She looked him up and down, no doubt eyeing his disheveled hair and wet clothes. She stood and leaned across the counter, whispering, “I’ve no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into this time, Malfoy, but this is a good shop. Okay? A good shop. And it’s owned by a good, kind, old man, who cannot afford to pay you anything near what you’re accustomed to, and I’d rather not have you turn up your nose at him, or worse, convince him to hire you. There is nothing here that you could possibly want, so please do us both a favor and go away.” Her words came out all in a rush. Draco crumpled the newspaper in his hand.

“No. I want to fill out the application.” He said, gritting his teeth. Granger huffed, exasperated.

“Hermione, dear, who’s this?” a jovial voice boomed from the staircase. Granger dropped her head into her hands and groaned.

“Great, just great,” she said. She turned towards a man of about sixty, who was cross from the stairs behind the desk to join her. “Rumpus, this is Draco. He was just leaving.” She pierced him with another icy stare.

Draco pushed through it. “After I fill out the application, she means.”

Rumpus’s smile brightened. “Wonderful! I can interview you right now. Why don’t you come with me, boy?”

“Rumpus—” Hermione tried to cut in, but Rumpus waved her off and gestured for Draco to follow him into the back room. There, another fire crackled, and a wide desk squatted between mismatched chairs. A floor to ceiling bookcase housed stacks of tomes behind it, and a record-keeping book sat open under a quaint, brass lamp. Rumpus settled himself into his worn chair and gestured for Draco to take the seat in front of the desk. As he sat, Rumpus summoned a kettle and began pouring them both hot cups of tea.

It was clearly made from a teabag, but soothing and most importantly—warm. So, so warm. Draco accidentally downed the whole cup in two goes. Rumpus smiled mildly, flicked his wand, and the kettle tipped some more into Draco’s cup. Draco smiled back, and the action felt alien on his face.

“My boy, I spy an elephant in this room, and I think it best we address it head-on. Alright?” Rumpus asked. Draco nodded, anxiety clutching at him.

Rumpus leaned forward. “Why is a reformed death eater and the heir to Lucius Malfoy’s fortune looking for a position at my humble shop?”

Draco almost choked on his tea. So, the man did know who he was.

“I-I don’t believe in any of that anymore,” Draco said, sputtering. Rumpus lifted his brows.

“I did say reformed, didn’t I?” he asked.

“You were so kind; I thought you might not know yet.” Draco said and stared at the desk, his face hot.

Rumpus shook his head and replied in a quiet voice, “My older sister was a lonely girl. She fell in with a dark crowd her fifth year—ran off and joined Grindelwald.” The man paused, took a long sip from his cup. “She’s in an unmarked grave somewhere in Austria, now. I always wondered why—the rhyme and reason behind why she did what she did.”

The silence was heavy. Draco rubbed a hand on the back of his neck before finally speaking. “Look, I don’t know about your sister; sometimes people make horrid choices for human reasons. But, at least for me, I did what I did and I believed what I believed for selfish reasons. At first, it was because it made me feel powerful. Then, it was because I was trying to save my own neck, really. I was so afraid that I didn’t care about anyone else. Now, I believe the lot of it’s rubbish, but nothing I can say or do will erase this.” Draco gestured to his forearm, where the scar lingered under his shirt and coat sleeves. “All I know is that I can’t go home again if I want to be rid of its legacy, and I can’t ask for charity, so I won’t.” he said.

Rumpus lifted a brow pointedly and gestured at Draco’s disheveled appearance. “You shouldn’t be so afraid of a little charity.”

Draco’s face burned, and he barked out a laugh, twisting his hands together. “I know I don’t deserve it, but,” he paused, his throat threatening to close. “I want to be better.” Draco gripped his knees to stop himself from bouncing them.

Rumpus stood and crossed to the hallway. “Would you care for some supper?” he asked. Draco jerked his chin up, then, finding the man in earnest, he nodded.

Rumpus nodded in return and beckoned for him to follow. “What do you know about books?”

#

Draco stared at the room key in his hand, scarcely believing it as Granger led him up the stairs to his new flat.

“It’s small,” she was saying. “And it’s thoroughly warded. All the units up here are.” She threw him a pointed look.

“There’s more apartments above the shop?” Draco asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes and nodded at a door near the stairwell. She said, “I live here too, and if you do anything to ruin it for me, I’ll hex you to smithereens. Got it, Malfoy?” Her glare could pierce through solid rock. Then, they rounded the corner and proceeded down to the end of the hallway. She stopped short at a dated, wooden door with a tarnished handle and a dent in the bottom panel.

“Here’s you,” Hermione said. She bit her lip, brow creased. “Don’t be loud, or do anything illegal, or I’ll report you to the ministry myself.” Draco didn’t have the energy to contradict her worries. Instead, he just nodded, tired. He’d nodded a lot today. Apparently as satisfied as she could be with the current circumstances, she turned on her heel and tossed her last remark back over her shoulder. “We expect you for your first shift at seven tomorrow morning, Malfoy. Don’t be late.”

Draco watched her disappear around the corner, stuck the key in the hole, and gingerly eased open the door to his new life.


	2. Episkey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: Thank you so much to everyone who commented, left kudos, and took the time to read the first chapter!! It was incredibly motivating to me, and thinking about it brings tears to my eyes. I'm still quite new at this, and having people care even just a little is so wonderful. <3  
> Next: I'm sorry that this chapter took a bit longer to write! My sister's been helping me work through my ideas, and she called me at 3 am a few weeks back to give me some assigned reading to help inspire my characterization. I wanted to work through that before finishing the chapter, and I'm glad I did.  
> Finally: As said before, this is a shorter series, but one that I'm very excited about. As I don't have an official beta reader, I apologize in advance for any errors. I plan to make a second pass and polish everything after it's completed.

Hermione was dreaming about Malfoy, again. Of course it was a dream, of that much, she was aware. But, it didn’t make the experience any less distressing. The stacks of the shop warped and twisted into a maze without end. She walked faster and faster, searching for something—but she couldn’t remember what. Only that it was important. It was the answer. Behind her, Malfoy called out for her to slow. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to stop, to turn around, to follow the pulsing magnetism she felt towards him, but she pushed forward.

“Please, Granger!” echoed from the row behind her. Hermione broke into a run, tripping around the corner and twisting her ankle. She hit the ground hard, and her palms smarted.

“Are you alright?” His voice was soft and so, so different. She steeled herself and looked up. He was, impossibly, beside her, pushing his sleeves up to the elbows and kneeling. He flicked his wand over her ankle, and she felt the sharpness recede. The pulsing throb in her chest intensified.

“You feel it too?” He raised his eyes from her ankle, and she was snared in their deep, grey ocean. There was a beat of silence.

“No,” Hermione grimaced, shaking her head. “This isn’t—you’re not real. You’re not like this.” Malfoy’s brows knit together, and he looked down at his hands. Slowly, he reached up and brushed his thumb over her cheek.

“I’d like to be,” he whispered. Hermione’s chest tightened, tears pricking at her eyes.

“Stop,” she whispered. “Stop. You’re a figment of my imagination. That’s all you’ve ever been. In real life, you’re…you’re a monster.”

#

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Ginny said, pinning Hermione with one of her signature stares as she stretched out over one of the armchairs on the shop floor. Hermione rubbed at her eyes, cursing her migraine. She’d been bent over this text for hours, and still no breakthrough. Not one loophole to crawl through—Werewolves were simply forbidden from choosing their own representation in Wizengamot trials. Hermione sighed. Maybe Melinda, her partner at their fledgling NPO, had found something more helpful.

“Maybe I should try again this evening, after a nap,” Hermione said.

“Didn’t sleep well last night?” Ginny asked. Hermione shrugged, but knew any attempt at deceiving the redhead would fail. They’d shared a flat for a year after the war, and as a result, Ginny knew far too much about her issues.

“Did you have another dream about—?” Ginny asked, swinging her legs off the arm rest and back to the floor.

“They’re not dreams, Ginny, they’re nightmares,” Hermione said, voice flat. She’d hardly slept at all after this last one.

Ginny dropped her voice into a whisper. “All I’m saying is that it’s awfully strange that you’ve always had these dreams, and then the person in them turns out to be an absolute prat in real life. And now, he’s here. Working where you work, and—” Ginny stopped short as Hermione waved her arms back and forth in a frantic shushing motion.

“It’s very normal to have self-destructive impulses, so long as you don’t lend them too much credence,” Hermione said, waving Ginny off. She’d seen muggle therapists about her subconscious, inexplicable fascination with Malfoy, and each of them had arrived at the same conclusion: it was her psyche’s way of coping with stress. She was re-writing a person she knew to be horrible to be kind instead because she felt a lack of control in her life. She hadn’t mentioned the fact that she’d started having the dreams before she even met him, but that was probably a stray side effect of her adolescent magic, undiscovered and simmering below the surface.

Ginny smiled and stood. She scooped up her wool coat off the side table and deposited her empty mug in the plastic bin filled with sudsy water. She crossed to Hermione’s desk and bobbed down to press a kiss to her forehead, saying, “Don’t let me stress you out, Love.” Hermione snorted, and Ginny flashed a cheeky grin. “Same time tomorrow?” she called. Hermione nodded, and Ginny pranced out the door. Hermione gave a long, low sigh and turned back to the heavy volume.

“Need a hand, Granger?” A certain blonde wizard strolled from the stacks, pushing an empty book cart. “I think I’ve got the organization system down.” He leaned over her desk, taking a closer look. “Is this for a customer?” Hermione frowned and slapped the tome shut.

“It’s none of your business, Malfoy,” Hermione said. She groaned and stretched, hoping to chase the stiffness from her neck. The bell over the shop door jingled, and she tried to not look weary. It was a regular—Matilda Brinkertop, an 8-year-old whose father worked at Quality Quidditch Supplies up the way. The duo kept a running tab. She made a move to rise from her seat, but Malfoy held a hand up to stop her. Something almost like concern radiated from his eyes. He’d been downright pleasant all morning, and it was infuriating.

“Hold up, Granger,” Malfoy said. “I’ve got this one.” Hermione crossed her arms and raised a brow. He’d seen her serve three customers that morning, but it didn’t mean he was yet competent enough to go it alone.

He strolled towards the small girl in the entry way and knelt. “Hello! What have we here?” He gestured to the thick paperback in her hands.

Matilda crossed her arms and thrust the book towards him. “Father bought me this last Sunday, but there are hardly any girls and they never get to be in the fun bits,” she said.

Malfoy pursed his lips and took the book, turning it over in his hands. “ _The Tale of Prince Arnold the Animagus_ ,” he said. His brow wrinkled.

“There are plenty of cats, but no girls get to be cats, and I don’t like it,” Matilda said, a small sniff punctuating the end of her complaint. Hermione shifted to get a better view.

Malfoy glanced up at Matilda and replied in a soft, bemused tone, “I don’t blame you.” He seemed sincere. Hermione rubbed at her eyes. “How about we find something where the young lady gets to be the cat?” he asked. Matilda nodded and walked towards the stacks. Malfoy spared a moment to look back at Hermione, and she found herself lost without a scathing comment.

Fifteen minutes later, Matilda and Malfoy returned to the front desk carrying _An All-Inclusive Guide to the Journey of Becoming an Animagus_. Hermione fumbled with the till, entering the wrong code twice before completing the transaction. She waited until Matilda was safely out the door before turning to Malfoy.

“You can’t sell advanced magical methodology books to minors without parental consent,” she said. 

Draco raised his arms in question. “Is there a law?” he asked. The pinch behind Hermione’s eyes grew stronger.

“Well, no, but there will be complaints,” she said, mumbling.

“What’s the worst they can do?” Malfoy thrust his hands into his robe pockets.

“Stop patronizing our business, boycott us, financially ruin us,” she said, ticking off each item on her fingers. Malfoy huffed and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Look, Granger, from the age that they’re capable of reading, pureblood tykes are given unrestricted access to materials far more dangerous than that.”

“By their parents, though.” Hermione crossed her arms. “Look, I’m not in favor of censorship. I hope Matilda’s allowed to keep that book. But, these decisions don’t just affect me, they affect Rumpus as well. We can’t just pay someone off and make the controversy go away.”

It was a step too far, and she knew it as it came out of her mouth. Malfoy’s face went slack for a moment, and then he recovered, giving a short laugh and combing a hand through his hair.

“You’re right, I suppose. My family did pay to make quite a few things disappear.” He adjusted the buttons on his sleeve cuffs, looking down at his hands, across the desk, anywhere but her eyes. “So, why are you reading the sixth volume of _A Record of Magical Law_?”

Hermione started and drew the book under the table and out of his sight. Malfoy stiffened. “I’m just trying to help,” he said, voice low.

“Why?” Hermione bit back, staring him down.

Malfoy sighed, his shoulders falling. “Is it so hard to believe that I’m trying to be nice?”

Hermione lifted her chin. “Honestly? Yes. You’ve been nothing but an incessant, horrid prat since we met.”

Malfoy’s face reddened and he visibly sagged at her response. “I know. And, I know it doesn’t change anything now, but… I was wrong.” His throat bobbed. “And cruel. I’m sorry.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. “I don’t owe you forgiveness, Malfoy,” she said, stone faced. “I don’t think you get it. I don’t blame you for being indoctrinated into extremism—you had no control over that. But, you weren’t just prejudiced. You tormented me, every chance you got. I don’t have to be comfortable and at ease with you suddenly being here, near my home, at my place of work. I won’t pretend to. You can’t expect everything to magically be better after years of harassment.” The words exploded, one after the other, as they piled out of her mouth. She sucked in a deep breath once she’d finished, feeling the rush of cool air fill her. The room was lighter and heavier all at once.

Malfoy nodded in silence and thrust his hands deeper into his pockets.

They worked in silence until closing.

#

The next morning, Hermione shoved a blueberry scone into a sheath of wax paper and handed it to Ginny, who was bedecked in her Holyhead Harpies robes. “You really said all that?” Ginny asked, eyes widening. Hermione bit her lip and nodded. “Ballsy,” Ginny said, grinned, and took a large bite of the scone.

“I wish I hadn’t. It was entirely unprofessional,” she whispered back.

Ginny straightened and shook her head. “But, don’t you feel better now that it’s out there?” she asked. The ancient clock behind the counter chimed seven times. Hermione took a deep breath.

“I think so, maybe?” she said, uncertainty lacing through her. “I think I needed to be honest. But, now that it’s ‘out there,’ I don’t know how to go back to normal.”

“Forget normal,” Ginny said. “You work with Draco Malfoy.” Hermione wrapped her hands around an oversized mug and took a long draught of her chamomile tea.

“And you didn’t have nightmares last night?” Ginny asked, prompting. Hermione shook her head. Then, she paused and set her mug down.

“He wanted to help,” she said.

Ginny raised her brows. “How do you mean?” she asked. The shop was quiet around them, but Hermione still peeked around to ensure they were alone. Then, she pulled legal book out from under the desk.

“He was interested in this. I didn’t tell him what it was for,” she said, tapping the cover. Ginny tilted her chin, a frown furrowing her brow.

“He may be able to, you know,” Ginny said. Hermione scoffed and crossed her arms. “No, really,” Ginny continued, even more eager. “The Malfoys have all kinds of resources. He may be able to point you towards a lead.”

Hermione pulled the book towards herself and slid it back into hiding. “Doubtful. He wouldn’t care about magical creatures’ rights,” she said.

Ginny shrugged. “It sounds like he’s trying to turn over a new leaf,” she said. As if on cue, Malfoy emerged from the door behind the till. Dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, though doubtlessly charmed clean, he ducked his head and rolled his sleeves up as he crossed to the tea stand. Ginny pressed her lips together and raised her brows. Hermione shot her a glare, threatening her with retribution should her well-meaning friend so much as think of—

“Oy, Malfoy?” Ginny called in a sing-song voice. Malfoy started, the hot water he was pouring splashed over his hand. Cursing, he stuck the side of his index finger into his mouth. Hermione dropped her gaze, feeling her face warm.

“Sorry, Mate. Didn’t mean to startle you. I was just wondering if you knew anything about the history of werewolf policy?” Ginny practically danced over to him, extending a fresh rag and a look of sympathy. Hermione felt a wave of envy wash over her. Ginny made things look so easy.

Malfoy stared at her, stiff. Then, slowly, “Which country?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “This one, unless I’m mistaken. ‘Mione?” She called over. Impulsively, Hermione grabbed the legal volume before crossing to join them. She held it like a shield against her chest. Malfoy’s eyes flicked away, towards something over her shoulder. She refused to turn around to see what had merited his attention over the olive branch that they were clearly extending.

“My, don’t you all look cozy?” Rumpus’s jovial voice boomed from the stairs. “Don’t mind little old me; I’m just dropping these off before my brunch date.” Hermione turned, watching as the stubby man carried in another tray of his homemade scones. He wore a wrinkled suit underneath his flower-print apron. She chuckled and glanced back at Malfoy, surprised by the way his eyes followed the tray.

“I’ll place these in the pastry case,” she said, taking the tray. Supposedly, the self-service tea cart and pastry bar were intended to keep customers browsing for longer, but Hermione was thoroughly convinced that Rumpus simply wanted more excuses to bake for people. The short, round man bobbed his head in thanks before scurrying back out the door. She looked up. Malfoy stared wolfishly at the treats.

“Are you hungry?” Hermione heard herself asking the question and cringed. Malfoy, to his credit, hurriedly turned back around and busied himself with straightening a stack of worn paperbacks on the book cart.

“Here, catch.” Hermione pried one from the baking sheet and underhand tossed it to Malfoy, who managed to not drop it. He lifted his head and looked at her, his grey eyes unblinking. She swallowed. “Stop gawking and eat the bloody thing.”

He stared straight into her as he took a bite. A shiver crept up Hermione’s spine. He swallowed, and a cool mask fell over his features.

“Werewolf policy has evolved very little since its initial implementation. There isn’t much history to tell,” he said, glancing down at the book in Hermione’s arms. Hermione slumped. She’d already known that. Malfoy examined her, adding slowly. “What’s your aim?”

“Who says I have one?” Hermione answered, grim lines furrowing her brow.

“You’re Hermione Granger,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t expect any less.” Hermione glanced up at him in surprise, but the moment was carved to bits by the arrival of a large, grey speckled owl. The creature swooped in the owlry flap and perched on the designated stand beside the desk.

Malfoy sucked in a breath. “Aquila,” he said. His jaw clenched, and he crossed the room to the bird. It released two envelops into his hands before gliding out again. Malfoy’s hair fell into his eyes as he stared down at the telltale, smoking crimson in his hands. “I’m surprised he bothered,” was all he said before slicing it open. Hermione cringed, and Ginny stuck her hands up to her ears, but it wasn’t like a usual howler.

The voice of Lucius Malfoy boomed through the shop.

“Fool.”

A single word, but it echoed off the shelves. Shook the table. Then, the crimson paper shredded itself, cardstock flying every which way, catching Malfoy in the face. Bright red blossomed from just below his left eye. The papers whirled and rallied in the air, as if to make another attack, but Hermione stood, fuming.

“Enough of this.” The magic shot off her tongue, tasting heavy and metallic without her wand to focus it. The shreds of paper burst into flame, then ash. Malfoy raised his brows.

“Really Granger? An incendio spell in a bookshop?” he said, his lips quirking. Hermione’s stomach warmed. It was unnerving.

“Taking out the trash is part of our duties here,” she said, her voice a bit too light.

Malfoy pursed his lips and busied himself with opening the remaining envelop. Thankfully, this one was a more neutral color. “Don’t let him get to you,” he said, not looking up.

“Your dad’s a bit of a prick, Malfoy,” Ginny said, sliding her coat on. “You must’ve done something big to get him so buggered.” Hermione bit her lip. The question had been rising in her since Malfoy showed up in the rain, but she hadn’t allowed herself the freedom to ask. The redhead pecked her on the cheek and ducked out of the shop. The bell jingled in her wake.

Malfoy unfolded a sheet of parchment and scanned the contents, casual. Unbothered. “I disowned myself.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, “Why?” Hermione’s voice was clear and firm as she crossed over to him. He didn’t blink, didn’t move as she stood before him. No matter that she didn’t need to know. That she shouldn’t care. Why did she care?

“Wouldn’t you?” he asked, finally bringing himself to meet her gaze. Hermione searched his face, cataloging the plane of his nose, the wideness of his eyes. Finally, she nodded. Her wand found its way into her hand, and she raised it slowly, gently to his cheek. He flinched.

“Episkey,” she whispered.


	3. Caught in the Cookie Jar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! It's been a while, no? The world is a bit darker than the last time I posted, and I kind of needed a break. But, I'm back, now. I hope you all are safe and well! This next chapter, things kind of ramp up, so get excited. :)
> 
> Thank you so much for every comment, kudos, and click that you all have given to me! This is my first time really writing and following up on a fanfic project, and your support really means the world. Thank you thank you thank you. 
> 
> I don't own the rights to these characters, JKR does (obviously). 
> 
> So, without further ado: pull up a chair, grab a cuppa, and get cozy.

Draco froze, but a warm, golden light spilled from Granger’s wand and danced over his cheek. The sting faded, but a deeper ache inside of him threatened to swallow him whole. The pounding in his chest intensified till it filled his ears with a dull, rhythmic roar and rush of feeling. His breath caught. He hadn’t been this close to another person since…since before the war, really. Granger chewed her lip, staring intently as she worked. Oblivious. Flinching, Draco slammed the gates of his mind closed. She couldn’t know. He tightened his fists and took in a steadying breath. After everything, she must not find out.

The urge to help her, to give her something back in return cried out to him, though. He couldn’t just walk away. “I could show you the library, see if you find anything helpful there,” he murmured, so low he could hardly hear it himself.

Granger’s eyes widened.

“I’ll be going back to the Manor to retrieve my things. Mother’s arranged for Father and her to meet with some friends. We won’t be disturbed.” He didn’t bother adding that Father wouldn’t allow him, much less Granger, to set foot inside the Manor otherwise. “I’m afraid you won’t have much time to browse, but it’s better than nothing.” He searched her face, taking in her smooth skin, the dip of her nose that was dusted in light freckles. Her eyes hadn’t narrowed, yet, but her bottom lip was still caught between her teeth. The-the floor. He must look at the floor.

“Alright then,” she said, softly, backing up and re-holstering her wand in her apron pocket. “We’ll help you with your things and check by your family’s collection on the way out.” She folded then unfolded her arms. “Thank you.”

#

They figured that the easiest way to transport the items would be to set up a temporary connection between the fireplace in his old room and one of the hearths in their building. Unfortunately, Draco’s unit didn’t have a functional fireplace, so Granger had volunteered the use of hers. Draco refused to let it go to his head. She was only being nice until she got access to his family’s papers, and that was just fine.

He’d enjoy it while it lasted.

Granger’s apartment was exactly what he’d expected. A bit larger than his, painted a cool grey, but warmed by knit throw-pillows, floor to ceiling bookshelves, and an ample window seat with an overstuffed cushion that looked over the main street of Diagon Ally. In her kitchen, a matching soapstone breadbox and butter dish sat upon a gouged, wooden table, and a static photo of a bushy-haired Hermione between some bloke and a rather kind-looking woman was clipped to a magnet on the fridge.

“Your parents?” he asked, gesturing. Granger nodded. She hesitated, shut the door she’d just opened to him, then brushed past to fiddle with the gas stove.

“Tea?” she asked, voice light. Draco rubbed at the back of his neck. “If it’s no bother?” he had almost no food in his unit. He’d never admit it, but the scraps from the tea cart downstairs had been sustaining him since he moved. Granger nodded, placing a cheery, yellow kettle on the flame.

“Your Mother said half-past, correct?” she asked again.

“Yes, that’s correct.” Draco looked for a place unassuming enough to sit or lean but found himself lost. Every nook of her place had some sort of tidy yet intimate personal touch to it. It felt wrong for him to disrupt it.   
“Stop looming over me and sit down.” Her voice sounded more bemused than annoyed. Draco twisted around, then finally settled on one of the chairs at the table. “What all will we be needing to move?” She asked and reached up high to open a cabinet door. A sliver of skin peeked out from the hem of her faded, lilac jumper. Merlin.

Draco stared at the foggy soapstone before him as he replied, “Not much, and nothing too large to be levitated. Some clothes, my file box, and maybe my bed.” Granger’s movement slowed.

“What have you been sleeping on?”

He wasn’t sure why, but the question sounded like an accusation.

“The floor?” he replied, brow wrinkled.

“Malfoy! You can’t be serious!” He peeked up to find her glaring at him. He shrugged. She continued, “Really, there’s no need for such dramatics. We could’ve easily arranged something for you.”

“I didn’t want to ask,” he muttered, feeling warmth creep up his neck.

“Look—just because I think you’re an awful prat doesn’t mean that I want you to starve in a barren, dirty room,” Granger said, placing her hands on her hips. A smile quirked across Draco’s lips, despite his best intentions.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said. Granger rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. That was new. Draco decided to push his luck. “It almost makes me forget how much of an insufferable know-it-all you are,” he quipped, raising his brows.

She narrowed her eyes at him and clunked his mug down before him a bit too firmly.

He caught her gaze. “Never said that was a bad thing, Granger. It’s one of the more compelling bits about you, actually.”

“I’m not the insufferable one,” she said, her eyes sparking with either annoyance or something else.

“Fine. You’re quite…” Draco let his voice drop low. “sufferable.”

What was he doing?

Granger’s face reddened, and she cleared her throat to reply, but the kettle’s whistle cut her off. Wordless and cheeks still pink, she poured them both a cup and flicked the stove off. Instead of joining him at the table, she opted to lean against the countertop and sip hers slowly, assessing him like some sort of math equation over the brim of her mug.

“It’s not poisoned,” she said. Draco started. “You’ve been staring at me as though you’re waiting for me to drop dead.” Granger gestured to his own cup.

Tentatively, Draco reached out and brought it to his lips. It was some sort of cheap blend that she’d no doubt picked up at a supermarket, but it was still the best cup of tea he’d ever had.

“Besides, there are far more efficient ways to kill you if I’d wanted to,” she said, a teasing grin spread across her face, sparking in her eyes. He raised a brow, savoring the warmth radiating off of her. The moment hung in the air between them, neither looking away.

“I-I think I have some food, somewhere,” Granger said. She turned suddenly to open her freezer. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach the back of the compartment, but she brought out a tell-tale tin with the shop’s logo stamped onto the front. “These are Rumpus’s Christmas biscuits. Orange and dark cocoa dusted. He only makes them once a year because they’re so sinful.” She pried the lid off and nabbed an oblong biscuit between her index finger and thumb before popping it into her mouth. “Here,” she said around the treat, holding out the box to him.

Draco focused on keeping his hand steady as he reached in and retrieved the smallest one.

“Good, isn’t it?” she said, dusting crumbs from her blouse and restoring the closed tin to the still-open freezer. “Probably not like anything you’ve had at the Manor, but—”

“No,” Draco said, catching her gaze and holding it. “It’s better.”

#

Hermione stepped through the floo and tried not to gawk at the opulence surrounding her. She’d known Malfoy was loaded, but not like this. What looked like an original Renoir (a known wizard) sat upon the wall above his massive, four-poster bed that she couldn’t quite bring herself to look at. On her right, French doors opened out to a patio overlooking the estate. Through the gleaming, glass panes, she could see peacocks wandering lazily over the grounds, preening their feathers. She whirled around and found the door open to the bathroom, where a waterfall cascaded from a slot in the wall into a generous, marble tub.

To his credit, Malfoy looked rather uncomfortable. Of course. She’d felt nervous with his visit to her space. He likely felt the same. Best get to work, then.

She yanked a clipboard from her bag, then turned to find Malfoy holding a similar checklist of his own. “Oh,” she said. Malfoy glanced up, distracted. His cheeks reddened as his eyes flicked to the list in her hands, then back to the list in his own. He coughed to break the moment, then:

“I’m guessing we won’t be able to fit frame and headboard through the floo. Ideas?” he asked. Hermione tapped her quill against her lip—a habit she’d never been able to break. She’d learned to write with muggle tools that didn’t leave ink on one’s lips.

“I can shrink them, but they may get a bit dented in my bag,” she said, lifting a brow. “We might wrap them in something?”

Malfoy nodded at this, crossing to yank open a drawer. He pulled out a pair of silk pajama bottoms and held them up. “Would this work?” he asked. His serious face next to the ridiculous, emerald fabric was a bit much, and Hermione bit back what felt alarmingly like a smile.

“You have Slytherin sleepwear?” she couldn’t help but tease. Malfoy huffed and rolled his eyes.

“It’s not Slytherin, it’s just green,” he said, an edge of exasperation in his voice. Hermione nodded back, exuding sarcasm.

“Right on, Malfoy. Yes, that will be sufficient. Now, what do you have written down?” She leaned over, trying to peer at his parchment. He blinked.

“Oh, well. Just some essentials. My books. Some clothes. My potions supplies. Can’t forget about my toiletries…” he continued to list off items, and Hermione supplemented with helpful suggestions. After planning out their approach, Hermione set to shrinking, wrapping, and packing Malfoy’s larger furniture while he packed his wardrobe away into a set of trash bags that Hermione had brought. Then, they carefully placed Malfoy’s potions supplies into his caldron, lining it with plenty of towels to protect the fragile glass and to separate some of the more reactive ingredients. They fell into a comfortable silence as they worked. She didn’t have to babysit him or tell him what to do. He often anticipated the next task and got started on it before she thought to direct him. That was refreshing. But, also to be expected. It was his old room, after all.   
Finally, the two of them floo-ed back and forth together, dropping items into Hermione’s apartment and returning for the next load. After depositing the last garbage sack onto her couch, Hermione stepped back into the fireplace to join Malfoy. He called out the name of the manor a final time, and they whipped back into the now-empty room. Hermione’s breath caught.

They’d been so busy, she hadn’t realized how different the space looked, now. It was empty, save for a cluster of older, sets of robes and belongings that Malfoy had deemed unnecessary. The light poured over the floor, and she could see slight scuffs from where the furniture had once stood. She looked up at Malfoy. His mouth was a firm line as his eyes skated over the room. He’d grown up in this house. It must’ve felt wrong to empty it of himself and abandon all the memories it must’ve held. But, if he felt so, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stepped, light and quick, across the floor and towards the door.

“Coming, Granger?”

She blinked. He stared back at her, hand extended, waiting. Then, his hand dropped. He clenched it at his side before releasing it again.

“We’ll need to move quickly to get what you need before my parents return. Please follow closely,” he said, voice firm and insistent, but his eyes were shuttered. The openness of the previous moment had evaporated. “This house doesn’t take kindly to mugglebornes,” he said.

Hermione nodded, mouth dry, and followed him. They jogged through the manor, twisting through hallways, a large sitting room, and what appeared to be an empty ballroom. They cut through what appeared to be the kitchens, then down another hall, then finally, Malfoy stopped in front of a pair of dark, wooden doors. Runes spiraled across their surface. Malfoy tapped on the center of the right door, and both swung open in a silent, ominous motion.

“Malfoy—wow,” Hermione couldn’t help herself from voicing her awe. Rows and rows of shelves stood before her. They crowded the center of the room, save for a seating area, and lined the perimeter, crawling up the walls. Ladders lay on tracks, there, presumably for readers to have easier access to volumes tucked up and away. Malfoy’s face was pink, and a small smile made its way to his lips.

“Be careful and wait here. Let me call up what you need,” he said. He crossed to a large, open tome in front of the seating area and placed his hand on the paper. “Werewolf, wizarding law, history, lycanthrope,” he spoke clearly to the book. Books, scrolls, and files, began to zip through the air, depositing themselves on the table beside Malfoy. He paused, assessed the stack, and added a few more search terms. Malfoy employed her shrinking charm, packing each item as it landed neatly into his shoulder bag. Hermione paced around in a slow circle, awed as the materials answered the call of their master. As she neared the wall, a tug on her consciousness drew here to a thin side table. Atop it, a pearlescent stone lay nestled within a velvet cushion.

 _I’ve been waiting for you._ The words were enticing and warm in her mind. The noise around her seemed to dim. Everything slowed.

“What?” Hermione whispered.

 _Come closer_. As if possessed, Hermione’s feet stepped forward. Her eyelids felt heavy.

_Pick me up._

Hermione wrinkled her brows. She needed a better look. She reached towards it, fingers outstretched. She could feel the heat and excitement emanating from the stone. Just a little closer—

“Hermione, no!”

There was a shout, and a tall, firm body collided against hers. The stone flashed and a beam of green magic sparked and snapped through the air. The firm arms around her shoulders didn’t yield, dragging her further away.

“Don’t touch anything in this library,” Malfoy’s voice was shaky, and his breath tickled her ear. She blinked. Had she really been about to touch a talking stone? Her face warmed. She could feel his hard chest against her back. Something was thumping, fast and hard inside of it.

She’d frightened him.

Gulping, she turned around. His eyes were wide, and he searched her face.

“I’m sorry—I should’ve warned you. This manor has cursed artifacts, handed down, that are quite dangerous to muggles and mugglebornes,” he said, releasing his hold around her waist. “I didn’t realize Father had moved that one from his study. It-it lures you in and snares you.”

“It seems that it did not succeed,” a new voice like ice cut through the library. Lucius Malfoy leaned against the door frame, his face a mask of steel and fury. “How very fortunate.”

Hermione’s blood was cold in her veins. She felt Malfoy’s fingers wrap around her wrist.

“You may have won the war, but that doesn’t mean you can break the law, Miss Granger,” Lucius drawled, but his fingertips were playing at his wand. “Breaking and entering is a serious crime.”

“Mother asked me to collect my things,” Malfoy said, voice flat. “We’ll be out of your way now.”

“And what have you to collect in here?” Lucius asked. The accusation hung in the air.

“My journals,” Draco said, tilting his chin towards a desk in the corner.

“I’d have rather thought the elves would have thrown them out,” Lucius said. “Seeing as they’re not Malfoy papers and therefore do not belong in the Malfoy library.”   
“I see,” Draco kept his features schooled into a mask of indifference. “We’ll be on our way, then.” His fingers tightened around her wrist, and she felt him slide closer, just between Lucius and her.

Lucius’s face tightened into a nasty sneer, and he raised his wand.

Before the older man could utter a word, a familiar tug jerked through Hermione’s stomach, and the world whirled away.

They popped back in front of the shop. The frigid wind snaked through her hair, blowing it up and into her face. Draco released her wrist, but the spot he’d touched still tingled.

That was strange.

Draco was breathing heavily. “We’re lucky he didn’t change the wards.” Hermione nodded, the seriousness of what had just transpired lingered above their heads.

“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” she said.

“Hm?” Draco cocked his head to the side.

She let out a shaky breath and started to climb the front steps. “I think it’s because we were busy. There was no time to think about everything because we were so hurried.” She inserted her key into the shop’s lock, stepped inside, and waited for him to follow. He crossed the threshold and she relocked the door. Together, they navigated through the area to the back stairwell.

“I-I took us the long way round so you wouldn’t have to see it again,” he said softly. Hermione stilled. He didn’t need to clarify to what he was referring. They both knew. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Even when I was living there, I started avoiding it after the war. If I go in the drawing room, I picture it. Him. The terrible things that happened. I remember how I stood there and did nothing.” His arms were flat at his sides, and his shoulders stooped. “It was dangerous to take you back there again.”

Hermione tilted her head, contemplating the strange pounding in her chest. Willing it to go away. “I wondered if you might intervene, at the time,” she said. Her voice was a thick and more hoarse than intended. “I was so delirious with pain that I wasn’t thinking straight. There was this moment, when Bellatrix let up, and I saw your face. You looked upset, and I hoped that you might help.” She cleared her throat, then coughed out a forced laugh.

Malfoy raised his face, and the noise died in her throat. He looked horror-stricken.

“Granger, I’m—” he stuttered, then swore. “I was a coward, and I’ll regret it till the day I die. I’m so sorry.” He hung his head. The erratic beating in Hermione’s chest refused to calm.

“I don’t know why I told you that,” she said, voice faint. Then she turned and proceeded up into the hallway. “Come on, Malfoy,” she called. “Let’s get you unpacked.”


End file.
